Hidden Scars
by InitialLuv
Summary: In the late 1950s, we hear the point-of-view of Mark McCormick's parents as they deal with their reactions and responses to a family crisis. Epilogue is set set some twenty-six years later.
1. Donna

This is my first published story on this site. It's been kicking around in my head for several years. After reading some of the great writing in this category, I felt inspired enough to finally write it down.

As this story progresses you will see that I have differing ideas on Mark's birthdate than many of the other fan fiction writers out there. When you think about it, even though there were no shows during the summer hiatus, did Hardcastle and McCormick quit playing The Lone Ranger and Tonto for those three months? I always figured the events in **_Ties My Father Sold Me_** happened in the summer, even though the episode was aired in September. Remember, Mark's sign is "Cancer, with Virgo rising" ( ** _One of the Girls from Accounting_** ). (Of course, he also says he's a Pisces in **_She's Not Deep But..._** , but I always figured that was just a smart remark. You know, McCormick has been known to crack wise.)

Please review and tell me what you think!

 **-ck**

***Thank you to Owl for contacting me and letting me know I'd made an unconscious error in naming one of my original characters. Sorry, newbie fail!

 _Disclaimer: These beloved characters do not belong to me, and I am writing for fun and feedback, **not** for profit._

* * *

 ** _Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter One**

 **DONNA**

He's late again.

It's not like this is unusual. In fact, promptness would probably worry me more. Promptness would have a reason attached, an explanation for the odd change. And the reason would be a lie. It doesn't matter how much charm and boyish patter accompany the reason, I know him well enough now to suss out the lies. The only problem is the smile. Once he flashes that smile, the one that crinkles his deep blue eyes and lights up his whole face. . . That smile gets me every time. He knows it, too. He doesn't play fair.

The smile was how I got into this situation to begin with. Or maybe it was Martha. Or a combination of the two. But even if Martha could be partially blamed for me falling hook, line, and sinker for that smile, she had nothing to do with the four-year-old currently kneeling by the piano bench.

He is running a red Matchbox car over the scarred wood, pursing his lips and trying his best to make the correct "race car" noise. He is also trying his best to not be worried about his father being late. He can't tell time yet, but he knows me well enough now, too. He can see I am tense, quiet, and looking repeatedly at the clock. My favorite seat on the sofa also allows me to look out the window to the street below, and when I'm not looking at the time I can swivel my head to watch for the familiar Studebaker.

I suddenly notice how quiet it has gotten in the apartment – no more "vroom-vrooms." I look away from the clock quickly, almost guiltily, to see my son gazing directly at me.

"Momma? "

"What is it, honey?"

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth I am ashamed of them, ashamed of downplaying his perception.

My son is too young to recognize my chagrin, and yet he abandons his toy, coming to crawl into my lap. His curly head fits right under my chin. Poor kid hadn't stood a chance. With both my loose curls and his father's wavy hair, he was practically born with the ringlets.

I hug him close to me, suddenly feeling a fierce wave of protection and responsibility. _Mine, this boy is mine._ Nothing that had happened in my past, and hopefully nothing that will happen in my future, can change that. He might have his father's eyes and smile and effervescent personality, but by God he is mine. The fact that he knew exactly what I needed, this quiet embrace –

"Momma?"

"What, baby?"

"That's too tight."

For the first time in the long day I truly laugh. Relaxing my hold on my struggling son, I kiss him on the top of his head and gently push him off my lap in the direction of the piano. He retrieves his car and resumes driving it across the bench, up and down the legs, and then across to the piano itself. It's over an hour past his bedtime, but he's wide awake, anxiously hoping that tonight's bedtime routine will be with the father he doesn't see as much as he should. When the man in question had finally called to say he was on his way home, I had promised the boy - _mistake_ \- that he could wait up. I watch him quietly now, lost in my thoughts.

I had been waitressing in the diner in Jersey City for a little over three years. Well, waitressing, opening, closing, mopping, dragging the garbage to the Dumpster, taking the till amount to the bank – everything except for cooking. Vincent had been very particular about his grill, to the point of only letting his son cover when Vincent was ill or needed a day off. And since the diner wasn't open on Mondays, Vincent hadn't need a day off very often.

I had started at the diner the year I turned sixteen. That was the earliest my step-father, Ron, would allow me to get a job. He had also directed that until I graduated high school, I could only work during the summer. My mother hadn't voiced her opinion. She'd rarely voiced any opinion beyond saying "I do." But when your husband dies and leaves you with two young children, and a decent-looking man with a good job shows interest, you look past the verbal (and later physical) abuse. You learn to keep your mouth shut and your head down. At least, that was what my mother learned. As for my brother and me, we learned to take care of ourselves and get out of that predicament as soon as we were able.

My brother Douglas is six years older than me. He has been at his factory job for almost twelve years now. He started at the very bottom: long hours, unpaid overtime, and little to no benefits. He is now a supervisor. He married a secretary who worked for the supervisor he eventually replaced. I actually like Brenda. They have a little girl, Annie. I don't get to see Brenda and Annie anymore. Doug has a problem with me. Truth be told, I have a problem with him.

The "problem" didn't start until Martha got a ride to work from the man with the smile. Martha waitressed at the diner, too, but for her it wasn't an escape from an abusive step-father and a barely-there mother. Martha had been waiting for her big break. The diner job was a brief stop on her way to stardom. She was a dancer, a singer, an actress. Well, at least a dancer. Although it wasn't exactly ballet. And she sometimes came to work with slight bruises. That might even have been one of the reasons my problem began. I didn't want to end up like Martha. And I thought I could avoid that by denying the truth and falling for the possibility of a white picket fence **. . .**

 **. . . . . . . . . .**

 **. . .** It was a rainy afternoon in mid-July when Martha came breezing in to the diner, still in partial costume. She had a raincoat wrapped tightly around herself with one hand, and her other hand clenched a damp paper bag that held her uniform. "I'm so sorry I'm late, Donna! Wayne was supposed to pick me up and he never showed! I had to beg for a ride." She nodded back at a man behind her. He tipped his chin in her direction with a laugh and a grin.

"Baby, I'd take that kind of begging any day," he said.

Martha stopped in her tracks and glared. I'd never actually seen her that rude to someone before, especially someone who had just done her a favor.

The man seemed to realize he'd overstepped. He spread his hands in apology. Martha softened her look somewhat, but still seemed suspicious.

"Donna, can you get him something to eat? I'll pay. He really did help me out."

Martha disappeared into the bathroom to change into her uniform. I grabbed a menu and brought it over to the man who sat himself at the counter. "Coffee?" I asked.

"Please." I grabbed a cup and poured, slid it over to the man, and then looked up to see him staring at me.

I had other diners to take care of. Vincent had rung the bell to let me know an order was up. But I was caught in his gaze, disarmed by his penetrating blue eyes. And then he smiled.

"Donna."

"Huh?"

His smile grew. "Your name's Donna."

"Oh. Martha told you."

"Sure. Maybe. Or I read your name tag."

"What's your name?" I felt a little at a disadvantage.

He paused. It was like he had to think. _Why would someone need to think before they tell a person their name?_ I thought crossly.

I should have known then.

"Mickey. Mickey Thompson. "

"Are you sure about that?"

That smile again. "Well, when you're a performer, sometimes you have stage names. Martha'll tell you. Do you think she performs as Martha Dunce?"

He was right. I knew Martha despised her last name, and used the name Marsha DuBois. Later that year Martha officially adopted her pseudonym. I'd always wondered if Mickey gave her some assistance with that task.

I had unconsciously moved a little closer to Mickey, pressing up against my side of the counter. "So is Mickey Thompson the stage name, or the real name?"

 _"Donna!"_ Vincent hollered from the kitchen. "Quit flirting and get to work!"

At that point Martha came out of the bathroom, pinning up her hair. She heard Vincent, saw me and Mickey talking, and her face became concerned. If I hadn't figured it out by Mickey's hesitation at giving me a name, I should have at least gotten an inkling by Martha's unusual reaction.

But sometimes things happen and you realize you're just along for the ride.

Mickey ordered the blue plate special (pot roast), and a piece of blueberry pie. After the pie he settled in to smoke a few cigarettes in between cups of coffee. At one point he looked disgustedly at the cigarette in his hand and muttered that he was trying to cut back "to give the pipes a break."

I had stayed near him as much as I could, in between helping the few diners that Martha couldn't cover. And when Martha wasn't busy, she was hovering near me. I could almost feel her clucking her tongue. And I didn't care. To hell with her.

"You're a singer?" My palms were clammy. _Why are my palms clammy?_

"That I am. I play a little piano, too. I could teach you."

"What? To sing, or play piano?"

"Either. Both." He leaned back a little, running his fingers through his dark waves, and a shiver ran up my spine. _What is wrong with me?_

Mickey looked conspiratorially around the emptying diner, then leaned back in. In a low voice that no one else was meant to hear, he asked the question I'd been hoping for since he'd said my name.

"When do you get off?"

* * *

I had been staying with Doug and Brenda. When Mickey dropped me off that first night, Doug shook his hand and asked him if he wanted to come in for a drink. Mickey politely begged off, saying he had to get back for a matinee show the next day. Doug shrugged as if it was no skin off his back (and he was probably glad he didn't have to share his booze). Brenda, nine months pregnant, huge and overdue, grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bedroom. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Tell me everything!"

And I did. I told her about the smile. About the way his eyes pierced mine, leaving me breathless and queasy. About the mystery that seemed to surround him, the "bad boy" reputation Martha gave him (and coming from Martha, that was something). The way he had taken my hand as we'd walked, and how it had felt so natural, so _right_. The soft kiss in the car, my hands caressing his silky hair.

I was in trouble.

And not three months later, I was "in trouble." When Mickey came around, there was no more shaking hands and invites to a drink from Doug. In fact, there was an eviction of sorts from Doug. Brenda really tried to go to bat for me, but I didn't want to put her in that position. They had a baby, and I didn't want to come between them. They were already having enough problems between Douglas being a full-time workaholic and a part-time alcoholic. I understood why he wanted me to leave. I also understood that part of it was because he didn't want Mickey around. Mickey charmed the ladies, and Brenda was also taken in by the smile.

But it hurt. If anyone should have been trying to help me, it should have been my brother. My father had died when I was three; Douglas had been just a few weeks shy of his ninth birthday. He'd taken care of me then, and he'd been the only positive male role model I could remember. As for my father, the most I remembered of him (and it felt like other people's memories) was that he had soft grey eyes and liked to golf. Doug ended up with my father's golf clubs. I got the grey eyes.

We both kept our father's last name.

Mickey and I moved to an apartment in Atlantic City. I found another waitressing job, at a restaurant on the bus line, although about eight months into my pregnancy I stopped working. And I spent a lot of time alone. Mickey was constantly playing gigs: little shows in little clubs, bigger shows in the casinos, occasionally flying to upper New York or Pittsburgh or even Washington, D.C. He'd often bring me home a souvenir. Once he brought me a sterling silver rattle for the baby, and I just looked at the extravagant gift.

Small time lounge singers can't afford gifts like that. They can't afford nice apartments to lodge the mother of an unborn child, a mother who isn't even working, isn't even contributing to the rent, the electricity, the grocery bills. And the piano, the television, the crib – it all cost money. Yet the money appeared. Sometimes even when Mickey wasn't working. He'd go out for a night "with the boys" to play poker until dawn, or out for a weekend to catch a fight at Madison Square Garden, and he would come home with a wallet thick with bills. He'd explain it off as gambling winnings, and of course that made sense. But it didn't make sense when he'd claim car trouble and not return for two days, and yet still seem to have money to spare.

But like my mother before me, who had learned to keep her mouth shut, I kept my fears to myself. I was going to have a child. And also like my mother, I didn't want to do it alone. Mickey might not have shown an interest in marriage, but he didn't bolt when I told him I was pregnant. That had to count for something. So far it had counted for just about six years. Our son will be turning five in less than two weeks.

I realize that in my recollections I have completely forgotten to check the clock. And now, I only do it out of reaction to the key turning in the lock. An hour and a half late. Well, that's not as late as he was getting to the hospital after I gave birth.

As the door swings open a four-year-old streaks past me, to leap into his father's arms. "Daddy!" he crows.

Mickey catches him easily, not even dropping his keys. He looks over our son's head to lock eyes with me, as if to gage exactly how much trouble he's in. I see the crumpled clothes, the shade of stubble on his face. His eyes look tired, almost sad.

And then he turns to look at the grinning child in his arms, and it's like the years drop off his face. He grins back at his miniature mirror image.

"I missed you, Markie."


	2. Mickey

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Two**

 **MICKEY**

"I missed you, Markie," I say, and surprisingly, it doesn't feel like a lie.

It's more for her than him; the nickname, indulging the kid. Not only is it a good way to draw the attention off of me and my shortcomings, but sometimes she'll just _change_ when I try to be a good father. Her face will soften, her whole body become less tense. And she seems pretty tense right now.

I set Mark on the floor, then make a pantomime of checking all the pockets in my jacket and slacks. He stands before me, bouncing on his feet with hardly contained enthusiasm and anticipation.

"I know I had something in one of these pockets. . . Maybe it fell out?"

Mark doesn't buy the tease. "No, look again, look again!" His smile is so wide his dimple creases. Yeah, I actually had missed the kid.

With a flourish rivaling that of the magicians I often perform after (or before, depending on the establishment), I finally produce Mark's souvenir: a small diecast airplane, about the same size as his favorite toy cars.

His face lights up in a kind of rapture as he cradles the plane in his hands. And then he's in my arms again, kissing me on my rough cheek. All this for a dime-store toy picked up as an afterthought. Before I can even recover from the second embrace, Mark is running to his mother to share his new possession. The distraction gives me some time to shrug out of my jacket and push up my shirtsleeves, in an attempt to try to make myself a little more comfortable and a little less disheveled.

Meanwhile, Donna is "oohing" and "aahing" over the airplane. After an appropriate amount of appreciation has been expressed, Mark begins to "fly" the plane around the room, making a passable jet sound with his mouth. He leaps onto the sofa next to his mother, jumps down, and then just as quickly scales the piano bench, much to my displeasure. Donna can at least pick out a recognizable song on the piano, but Mark's interest in it is mainly as a jungle gym. I've only been home for five minutes; I can't bring myself to chastise him. It's only a second-hand, after all. Yet I can't help cringing, and I hope it's not obvious to the kid.

But I am momentarily forgotten. Well, at least by him.

Donna rises from the sofa to approach me. For a moment, a hopeful moment, I think she's coming for an embrace. I actually start to lift my arms. But then she just stands before me with her arms crossed and an unreadable expression.

"You're late."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I try to not sound petulant, but I'm tired.

She shakes her head tersely. "I knew you'd be home eventually. But these long trips - it's hard on him. I'm running out of excuses. He idolizes you, you know." The tone in her voice makes it seem she is envious, maybe even a little concerned by the supposed idolization.

"C'mon, Donna, cut it out. He's used to me being gone for a few days at a time."

"That's the whole point. That's why you're so important to him – he has to take the little time he has with you, and make it really count. I'm always here. I have to be the heavy, and you're the fun-loving guy who brings him presents."

I really do not need this. I walk into my apartment, that I pay for, that she gets to live in, and I get raked over the coals. I'm here. I showed up. And less than twenty-four hours ago, that might not even have been a possibility. Mistakes had been made. Not all by me, but enough. I have been Mickey Thompson so long I had gotten complacent. It was only by the generous assistance of the "gentleman" who desired items only I could procure that I wasn't still in jail. I had been a hair's breadth from taking a fall.

And damned if she didn't know it.

I leave her comment hanging as I walk past her into the kitchen to grab a beer and scrounge for leftovers. Mark runs by with the plane, and I reach out to tousle his hair, but he ducks under my hand with practiced ease. He's weirdly protective of his shock of curls. I think it's partially because it hurts so much to untangle them when his mother decides they both need to get gussied up for church. As I'm not exactly Catholic, that's something the two of them always do alone.

Also, if I ever got too close to a confessional, I'd be afraid of what I might say.

I sit at the table with my beer and some cold fried chicken. Donna has followed me, and she sits by me now, pulling her chair close enough so our knees touch. When I set the beer down to take a bite of chicken, she picks the bottle up and takes a swig.

"How long are you staying? When's the next three-day 'show'?"

I flinch at the accent on the word. I can't help it. She can be so damn infuriating. I reach to take the bottle back from her, my fingers brushing hers. She doesn't readily release it, and when she does finally let go she does it with a sly smile. I feel a familiar warmth starting in my face and spreading through my body.

Oh, hell, I had missed her, too.

She leans against me then, resting her head on my shoulder. I lower my head into her hair and breathe deeply. Just a day ago. This woman, this boy, this home – just a day ago I might have lost it all.

And I still could.

"I'll stay close as long as I can. I have some nearby gigs set up. But some 'things' might come up . . . maybe next week, or the weekend." I had been twisting a tendril of her hair around my finger. She suddenly shifts away from my hand, wincing as I accidentally pull her hair. She rises to her feet, shaking her head slightly against the pain.

"Mark's birthday is next Friday." Her accusing voice makes it seem I had planned this.

"What about it? Are you planning a big party? Inviting your brother?"

Her eyes flash. The brief moment of attraction that we had held has disappeared.

"Is that supposed to be funny? Why do you have to be so mean?"

I look down at the Formica table. God, I'm tired. I can still smell the stink of the lock-up, feel the anxious fear in the pit of my stomach. I don't want to lash out at her. She doesn't deserve it. She puts up with my crap, with my increasing absences. She's kind, she's forgiving, and she's resourceful. She has practically raised this great kid on her own, with no help from her family and not enough help from me. Mark might look like me, but I think that's where the similarities need to end. It would be much better for him to adopt his mother's examples than to follow me down the road to hell.

"I'm sorry, Donna, I didn't mean it. You know I'll do my best to be here. We'll do something nice for the kid, a little get-together. Maybe invite some neighbors. . . Are you going to have the twins up from downstairs?"

She pulls a face. "I don't know about those girls. I mean, I know they're two years older than him, but I don't like how they treat him. Like he's a pet or something." She pauses, thinking. "And I think he _likes_ it. Pretty blonde twins." She frowns, looks at me like it's my fault. "I know he gets that from you."

I try for my most dazzling smile. "No way, not me, baby. You're all I ever needed."

I turn my chair out from the table and hold out my arms. This time she doesn't hesitate, and when she comes to me I pull her into my lap. I can feel her mouth smiling as she bends slightly to kiss me, her arms draped around my shoulders. After a few moments she pulls away from the kiss, but not from my embrace. The smile is still on her lips. "Oh, Mickey, you really do not play fair," she breathes.

 _I_ don't play fair? That husky voice, her body so close to mine I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. I nuzzle her neck, and am rewarded with her shiver. My voice when I speak has a slight tremble.

"Hey, is it bedtime yet?"

She laughs, and begins to respond, but whatever she starts to say is impossible to hear over the anguished howls of pain that suddenly emanate from the living room.


	3. Donna (Again)

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Three**

 **DONNA**

I am comfortable in Mickey's embrace, desire and denial making me forget the previous anxious hours that I had spent with the clock. He makes some wry comment about getting our son to bed so we can have some privacy. I am about to reply when Mark starts to scream in the living room.

When my niece Annie was five months old (and about one month before I admitted that I was expecting), Brenda liked to play up the "mother's intuition." She claimed she could tell by Annie's cry whether she needed to be changed or to be fed, whether she was getting sick or if she was just lonely. Once I became a mother I realized that Brenda had actually been telling the truth, albeit a little condescendingly.

There's no mistaking this hysterical crying. I freeze for a millisecond, as images flash in my head about what I'll find in the living room. And then I'm on my feet, leaving Mickey looking shell-shocked in the kitchen. I turn the corner to enter the living room, and the first thing I see is the toy plane on the floor a few feet from the piano. The next thing I see is the blood.

Mark is half-sitting, half-lying, at the edge of the piano. He is hitching in sobs in between the screams. It seems with each scream the gash on his head leaks more blood. It's on his shirt, on his hands, in his hair. I can barely see his left eye in the frightening flow of scarlet.

I don't know what happened, but I hazard a guess. The way he'd been climbing the furniture to get the plane as high as was capable with his small frame and an outstretched arm. A loss of balance, a fall – my eyes frantically track to the sharp edges of the piano bench.

I drop to the floor and try to pull him into my arms, but he is so upset he sits up to push me away with a wild strength. "No!" he cries. "Don't hurt!"

I'm vaguely aware of Mickey standing behind me. "What the hell. . ." he says with disbelief. I have a feeling he is thinking on the same level as I: how had we not heard Mark fall? We had been so consumed with each other in the kitchen, only realizing something was wrong when we heard the screams. I am deeply ashamed, angry at both of us.

"Get me something – a towel, something!" I bark, barely glancing at him. I'm trying to get a better look at Mark's injury, but I can't see anything for the blood. I reach for him again, speaking softly, trying to calm him.

"Mark, honey, please let me see. Let me fix it, please."

Mickey's back again, with a bath towel, a hand towel, and a clean dishrag. It appears he's raided the linen closet. I grab the dishrag, folding it in half and meaning to place it over what I think is the main source of the flow of blood. As I reach for him, Mark shuffles back in fear of more pain, and smacks the back of his head against the piano bench. I wince in sympathy and feel tears prick my eyes. "Mickey, God, help me!" I plead.

It takes a beat, but then Mickey seems to understand what I need. He pushes the piano bench out of the way and kneels behind Mark, gently but firmly grasping his arms. I am finally able to place the dishrag against what I've determined is Mark's injury, a deep and ugly gash along his left eyebrow.

He's like a wildcat in his father's arms. I can see the surprised reaction on Mickey's face as he has to tighten his grip to keep Mark from escaping. We are like bookends, with our injured son in the middle. I can hear Mickey humming quietly, not quite singing. I'm not sure I recognize the song. Whatever it is, it seems to give Mark something else to concentrate on. He's stopped struggling, but he is still intermittently sobbing and whimpering.

The dishrag had been light yellow. It is quickly becoming red. I look at Mickey with an overwhelming fear like I have never felt before. "We have to take him to the hospital. We have to take him _now_."

Mickey has an odd, distant look on his face. He stops humming, and his grasp on Mark loosens. "Hospital?" he murmurs. "Are you sure?"

I direct my eyes at the saturated dishrag. I'm ready to swap it for the hand towel. I think the bath towel would be overkill, but I haven't completely disregarded it.

Mickey has gotten the point of my gesture. He starts to rise, then looks at me with concern. "Will you be okay with him? I can't help you and drive."

I nod assertively. "I'm fine. Just help me get him downstairs."

Mickey carries our son while I hurry next to them, doing my best to hold the compress against Mark's gash. I barely realize we've gone downstairs before we're standing in the street next to the Studebaker. I open the rear-hinged back door and slide in, then reach for Mark. He's still crying, but now the tears are mainly silent. Even in the darkness there is enough light from the street lamps to see his face is pale. That is, the part of his face I can see that isn't streaked with blood.

Mickey is hesitating again. " _What_?" I explode.

"Maybe spread the bath towel out. You know. . . The blood."

I look at him with disbelief. "Give him to me," I demand coldly.

Mickey leans down, but Mark suddenly clings to him for dear life. "No, Daddy!" He starts to sob loudly again. Mickey tries to peel Mark's arms from around his neck. I can see there's blood on the shoulder of Mickey's shirt and on his cheek. While Mark was struggling the dishrag shifted position, and the gash seems to be freely flowing again.

"Markie – I have to drive. You have to sit with your mother. C'mon, kid, that's enough."

I'm a little nonplussed at the brusque words, but they seem to get through to Mark. Mickey is finally able to place him in my arms, and I put the waiting hand towel on his bleeding head. I toss the saturated dishrag in the street before Mickey closes the back door.

Like I missed the trip down the stairs of the apartment building, I miss the drive to the hospital. It seemed we had just pulled away from the curb seconds ago. Mickey is rounding the car to open the back door, but he doesn't attempt to take Mark from my arms. I step out of the car with my injured son cradled to my chest, and together Mickey and I walk in to the emergency section of the hospital.


	4. Mickey (Hospital)

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Four**

 **MICKEY**

Eleven at night isn't exactly late in Atlantic City, but the emergency area of the hospital isn't as busy as I expected. Then I realize it's Tuesday – after the distressing long weekend and then this horrific homecoming, I had momentarily lost track of the date.

Donna goes straight to the nurses' desk, and she barely has to take in a breath to speak before an older nurse comes around the back of the desk to take Donna's arms, still holding Mark, and she directs them both to a hallway that I assume must lead to examination rooms. Donna takes one look over her shoulder toward me, her eyes wide and scared and impossibly young. Then the trio is out of my sight.

I stand at the desk, momentarily staring at the entrance to the hallway. Then I turn toward the door that leads to the parking lot.

"Sir? Sir!"

A different, younger nurse at the desk is calling me, her tone firm. I pause, closing my eyes in resignation before I turn back. "Yeah?"

"The boy – your son? – I need you to give me your information." Now that I've turned back, her voice seems to hold more concern than authority. Her eyes track up and down as she looks at me, and I realize I must be a sight; even before they were stained with Mark's blood, my clothes had been rumpled and dirty. My shirttails are hanging out of my slacks, and I self-consciously try to push them back in place.

"Uh – his mother. She's with him. She can tell you. . . I don't have – I don't think – "

I'm backing up now, still thinking of escape, of how far I can get and how fast, but this young woman in the starched white uniform is now coming around the desk toward me. _Why can't these nurses stay where they belong?_ I think, and give an involuntary laugh. It comes out sounding choked and painful.

"Why don't you sit down?" she says, not unkindly, but I notice that she moves around behind me, as if to block off my escape route. I'm ushered into a chair, and she sits beside me, reaching for a clipboard that another nurse hands her.

I look at the forms on the clipboard with trepidation. What do they want from me? What do they expect me to tell them? What do they expect me to know? Mark was born in this hospital but I wasn't there, not until he was about five hours old. He's rarely been sick that I'm aware of – he's definitely never been injured like this before. And when I give them his name, and my name – how do I explain that? I have a sudden urge for a cigarette, but they were unfortunately in my jacket, left back in the apartment. It's just by luck that my wallet was in my pants when we left, I certainly hadn't thought about needing it. When we made our hasty exit, I had grabbed my keys and called it good.

I realize the nurse has asked me a question that I never heard. Obviously worried about why I didn't answer, she reaches to grasp my wrist gently. I jerk my arm back now, and the earlier concern on her face shifts to something more like suspicion. Oh, that's not good. That won't do at all.

"I'm sorry," I apologize hastily. "I'm just worried, you know? I mean, I'm sure you know, you must see a lot here, probably a lot worse than this – big city and all, right? Yeah, the kid gave us a scare and I was already a little beat, had a big weekend – "

"Sir!" She cuts off my babbling, but apparently it worked. The suspicion is gone, replaced only by genuine concern, and I breathe a reflexive sigh of relief. She apparently misreads it as a sigh of worry or fear. Either way, as she lifts her pen above the forms on the clipboard, her eyes and her voice are soft and charitable.

"Now, if you could just tell me your son's name and age, Mister –"

"His name's Mark. He's four. He'll be five on the twenty-sixth." I bypass her question of my name. And as I answer, to the best of my ability, the rest of her questions, each time she tries to pin down my name I side-step it. I give her Donna's name, which she puts down as "mother," leaving the line for "father" blank.

That's what I am. A blank. A man who is marginally concerned about his son and more worried about blood getting on the seats of his car. A man who wants nothing more than a cigarette and to beat a hasty retreat.

The nurse has released me, and I rise quickly, realizing I'm at a crossroads. Ahead and down the hall is my family, such as it is. Behind me is the door, my car, freedom. If I choose the rapid exit, I could leave a few bucks to pay for the bill, maybe a little extra so Donna could take the kid home in a cab instead of on the bus. I nod to myself. Yeah, maybe it would be for the best. What kind of father cares more about an eleven-year-old Studebaker than his own flesh and blood?

I'm reaching into my pocket for my wallet when I hear a familiar wail that can only be my son's, and Donna's voice rising in tandem with it. Her frantic call carries down the hallway.

"Mickey! Mickey! Mickey, I need you!"


	5. Donna (Exam Room)

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Five**

 **DONNA**

As the nurse leads me and Mark back to an exam room, I look over my shoulder at Mickey, standing forlornly at the nurse's desk. I am struck with a strange certainty that this is the last time I will see him. My chest clenches in fear and a sudden loneliness.

The nurse helps me situate Mark on an exam bed. He is nearly silent now, and that in itself is worrisome. If Mark isn't gaily jabbering and talking my head off, he still is almost always making some other kind of noise. Whether it is imitating the engine sounds of his toys, singing snatches of songs he's heard from his father, or just creating commotion by running and jumping and climbing around, silence is not something he is known for.

The nurse starts asking me what had happened, how long ago, how long it had taken the bleeding to stop. _Wait, it stopped?_ I look closer at my son, so small on the adult-sized bed. I start to lift the hand towel, only to have the nurse stop me. When her hand comes close to Mark's forehead, he flinches.

"What? You said it stopped!" I have a pressing need to see the gash, to see if it is as bad now that it's not full of blood. It had been so close to his eye, and if I can just see it, maybe it won't be as bad as I'm imagining. . .

"We really need to keep the pressure on it until the doctor can see him," she explains, but it is not with much feeling. She is very blunt and direct. I find myself instantly disliking her for no other reason than she thinks she knows better than me when it comes to my son. _M_ y son.

My son who fell when I wasn't looking, and is now in the hospital with a red, angry gash dangerously close to his eye.

The nurse has wet a small cloth and she bends down, preparing to wipe some of the blood off Mark's face. He starts to move his head back and forth in a familiar motion that I'm privy to every time I need to wash his face. "Young man, you need to be still," she directs testily, and I feel my teeth clench with tense anger.

"Please do not talk to my son that way."

The nurse pauses to look at me warily. I hold out my hand for the cloth. After looking down at Mark and then looking back up at me, the nurse quietly puts the cloth into my hand.

I lean over Mark, and begin to gently wipe the tear- and blood-streaked face. I avoid the left eye – I can't reach much of it, anyway, with the hand towel compress still in place. He keeps his head still and doesn't complain, which is a minor miracle. I wonder if he's doing it in quiet solidarity against the nurse.

"Where did Daddy go?"

His voice is almost normal, just a small tremor. Mine, on the other hand. . .

"He's just taking care of things. Don't worry, honey, he'll be here soon." As if in answer to my promise the door opens, but it's not Mickey, it's the doctor. He's tall and imposing in his white smock, about the same age as the nurse, and I recognize them as being cut from the same cloth. I am positive I will also dislike this man.

"So what do we have here?" he ask jovially, but his voice is loud and sudden and I see Mark's eyes widen in fear. I squeeze his shoulder firmly, and when his eyes track back to me I muster a reassuring smile that feels more like a grimace.

The doctor introduces himself as Dr. Rose, and asks me the same questions the nurse did. Then he speaks quietly to the nurse, giving her directions as he prepares to lift the hand towel off Mark's head. I think we are all holding our breath to see what's under the compress.

As the towel is removed I can see the gash is still bleeding, although it's nothing like the earlier free flow. And I can finally see the full damage: a deep laceration at least two inches long, running almost parallel to Mark's left eyebrow. I gasp before I can stop myself.

"I'm sorry, Momma." Mark's voice is small and toneless. I want to scoop him up in my arms. He is apologizing – to me. He has somehow decided this is all his fault.

"Baby, no, you have nothing to be sorry for! This was an accident, you didn't do anything wrong!"

"I was on top of the piano. I'm not supposed to be on the piano. Daddy said."

I see the nurse quirk an eyebrow. I don't know if it's because she's picturing Mark climbing on a piano, or because she got the impression Mark's father doesn't let him on the piano, but I do.

Dr. Rose interrupts. "He's going to need stitches, and I'd like to clean the wound out. The safest way to do that is to inject a local anesthetic. It'll numb the area so that he won't feel the pain from the cleaning and suturing." I nod my understanding without speaking. The doctor speaks to the nurse again and she leaves the room briefly.

Stitches. How many stitches? Will he have a scar? I should be happy it's just a scar. When considering the proximity to his eye, it could have been so much worse. I hold Mark's hands, my eyes unable to draw away from the oozing wound. Because of my single-minded view, I do not see the nurse arrive with the injection needle, handing it to the doctor. But Mark does.

His body suddenly goes rigid, and I see the abject terror in his eyes. The nurse reaches out to restrain him as Dr. Rose approaches with the needle, and then all hell breaks loose.

Mark begins to kick and fight. One hand smacks the nurse in the nose. That fills me with a guilty pride, until one of his feet kicks me in the gut and almost knocks the wind out of me. The doctor has backed up, still holding the needle, and I can hear him ordering me to get my son under control, that this is not acceptable, and I wish I was four years old and I could start smacking people in the nose, too. But I have to admit that Mark needs to be calmed down. I've never seen him like this before, and I don't think I can handle him on my own.

Mark lets out a high-pitched wail, and I find myself screaming in harmony with it.

"Mickey! Mickey! Mickey, I need you!"


	6. Mickey (Exam Room)

**_Hidden Scars_ ****by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Six**

 **MICKEY**

Donna's cry causes me to freeze for a moment with my hand on my wallet, and my eyes lock with those of the nurse who had assailed me with the forms. She's young; a little younger than me, probably about Donna's age. But in that frozen moment the dangerous glare she gives me makes me feel like I am being reprimanded by someone much older. My mind brings up an image of a sour-faced teacher, lightly slapping a ruler in her palm as she approaches an unruly student.

But still, I'm surprised to find myself turning from the exit and instead moving further into the hospital. I think I go down the hall leading to the exam rooms more to get away from the judgmental nurse than to respond to Donna's call.

I easily find the correct room. There are not many occupied rooms, but that's not the reason why; it's more because of the noise and activity that I can hear behind the partially open door. I push it open far enough to see the chaos taking place. Mark is fighting tooth and nail to be anywhere but here _(I know what that's like, Markie_ ) while Donna is doing her best to hug the kid into submission. There's a doctor watching from the relative safety of the back of the room, and the older nurse is sitting in a chair with her hand covering her nose. Neither of them is attempting to help Donna, although knowing her, she probably wouldn't have accepted their help. She is very possessive of Mark. That should make me jealous, but it doesn't.

Donna sees me approach and the gratitude (and what else? Surprise?) on her face makes me feel like a world-class heel. Just two minutes ago I'd been thinking about bolting. If she hadn't cried out for me at just that moment. . .

Mark notices his mother's reaction and he looks my way. "Daddy!" he sobs, reaching out toward me.

Even a world-class heel can't refuse a sobbing four-year-old. I come fully into the room and pick Mark up off the bed. His small body is almost hot from the adrenaline-fueled frenzy. He seems to be having a hard time catching his breath, and the cut above his eye is still bleeding. I look for a place to sit with my boy, but the nurse is still occupying the only chair in the room, so I opt for hoisting myself onto the bed. Donna is trying to sort herself out a little, fixing her clothes and hair. She also seems to be having trouble catching her breath.

"What the hell happened in here?" I ask, not really directing it at anyone specific, just to whoever is willing to explain.

The doctor comes forward, although he gives Mark a wide berth as if he doesn't trust that he's over his outburst. "Sir? I'm Dr. Rose. I was just explaining to the boy's mother –"

"Mark. His name is Mark." Donna has apparently taken all the time she needed to recover.

The doctor begins again. "I was explaining that _Mark_ needs stitches, and the best way to do that safely and painlessly would be to inject a local anesthetic." He pauses. "Mark was . . . resistant."

I see the needle the doctor is holding and I trade glances with Donna. "Resistant of a needle bigger than him?" I look back to the doctor. "Did that really surprise you?"

The nurse seems to have recovered as well, although as she takes her hand from her face I see her eyes are red and watery. She rises to stand near the doctor, out of Mark's reach.

"No matter his resistance – this is the best way to properly stitch the wound." Her voice is slightly nasal, and she wiggles her nose occasionally as she speaks. "Unless you'd rather us suture it with no anesthetic."

Donna sits next to Mark and me on the bed. She takes her hands and places them on the sides of Mark's face, looking at him with motherly resolve. I know that look. This is the face she gets when Mark drops his ice cream cone because he's running and goofing on the boardwalk, and he can't understand why we don't just get him another cone. This is the face she gets when Mark has to be banished to the back seat of the Studebaker because he's unable to sit still in the front, constantly wiggling and playing with the window and the mirror and the ash tray. It's time to try to get the four-year-old to understand logic.

Maybe he'll surprise me by listening. He is almost five.

Donna looks askance at me. "What are you grinning about?"

"Sorry."

She returns her gaze to Mark. "Mark, I need you to listen to me." She pauses. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Are you looking at me? Can you see how serious I am right now?"

"You're holding his face prisoner, where else could he look," I mutter. Without moving her hands from Mark's face, Donna is still able to elbow me in the side. It's not a simple jab, considering Mark's in my lap and partially blocking my body. But she accomplishes it. It's even a little painful.

If I look down and to the side a little, I can just see Mark's face. He is somberly regarding his mother as she continues speaking.

"You heard Dr. Rose. He needs to close the owie on your head – do you know how doctors and nurses do that? They use a needle and a special type of thread."

I can feel Mark jerk in my arms. "Like when you fixed my coat? They want to _sew_ me?"

I'm grinning again. I can't help it. I think Donna even has to suppress a smile.

"Kind of. . . But that's what they have to do to fix you."

Mark pulls away from his mother's hands, and I can feel the fear rising in his body. His breathing quickens, his heart is a hummingbird beating against my chest. "It's going to hu-urrt," he whines.

Donna doesn't disagree. She doesn't pander much with the kid. "Yes, it will. But if you let the doctor give you the shot, it will only hurt a little bit. The shot will make your forehead go to sleep, and you won't even feel them sew your owie closed. But, baby – if you don't let the doctor give you the shot, then you'll feel them sewing, and that will hurt a lot more."

I can see the consternation on Mark's face as he processes his mother's words. He turns his head slightly in the direction of the doctor. The man has moved forward, and he nods at Mark now. "Your mother's right," he says. "The medicine I have in this needle will make your 'owie' numb. You won't be able to feel it when we put the stitches in. It will be very fast, and then you can go back home."

"What do you think, young— Mark? I know you don't know me, but you trust your mother, right? She wouldn't lie to you."

No, Donna doesn't pander, and she doesn't lie. She might omit facts once in a while, I mean, you can't tell a four-year-old _everything_ – but she doesn't lie to him.

Well, except concerning me. I have a feeling there's been more than a few times when she's bent the truth to Mark about my whereabouts, my absences, the reason for my absences.

Mark heaves a shuddering sigh and returns the doctor's nod with an infinitesimal one of his own. Suddenly Dr. Rose and the nurse are all business. The doctor checks and adjusts the syringe, then directs the nurse to get Mark back on the bed. As the nurse reaches for Mark I unconsciously clench him tighter, and Donna moves in front of me to prevent the nurse from taking Mark from my arms. The nurse sighs noisily. I can tell she's just as tired of this whole scene as the rest of us are.

"Can't he just stay in my lap?" I look between the doctor and the nurse. "Can't you just do that part like this, and then lay him down for the stitches?" I call upon my best smile, the one that gets things done.

The smile rarely fails me. I hold Mark's upper body tightly, and Donna provides backup. We do our best to keep his head motionless. The doctor is quick and efficient. He is able to put two quick pricks into Mark's head, one on either side of the injury, and it takes maybe ten seconds.

"It'll numb up fast. Just a few minutes." The nurse already has a small metal table near the bed with the necessary tools. "If you'll put him on the bed, please."

Once Mark is on the bed I move back, ready to let Donna take the reins again. But as the nurse and doctor approach, my son's glazed eyes seek me out and he calls to me.

"Daddy, don't go! Daddy. . . _sing_."


	7. Donna (Exam Room - Apartment)

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Seven**

 **DONNA**

When Mark beckons to his father, plaintively asking him to sing, I think it has finally become too much for Mickey. I see the tense muscles in his body, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the anxious glances around the room like he's afraid the walls are getting too close. I know I'm asleep on my feet and Mark is awake purely on fear-based adrenaline, but I realize that after his long weekend, Mickey must be physically and mentally exhausted.

The exhausted man slowly walks back to the bed and his waiting son. I am standing at one side of the bed; Mickey drops into the chair the nurse has recently vacated, and he moves it so he is opposite me. He looks up at the doctor, who has just returned to the head of the bed after disposing of the syringe and re-scrubbing his hands.

"Can I sit here? I'm not in the way, am I?"

Dr. Rose gives Mickey an approving nod, and I'll be damned if the old bat of a nurse doesn't put a reassuring hand on Mickey's shoulder. I feel my mouth opening slightly, and I snap it shut before my disbelief can be witnessed. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman and he's a man, or because of that smile, but apparently while I am _persona non grata_ , Mickey has become the fair-haired boy.

"Daddy?" Mark's eyes are shifting around the room in an eerie resemblance to his father's furtive glances. My son scrabbles with his hand toward Mickey, and Mickey grasps the thin, blood-smeared fingers. The doctor begins cleaning Mark's wound, and there's no reaction from my son – apparently the anesthetic did its job. But when that part of the ordeal is over and Mark can see the surgical needle now being readied above his head, he again implores for his father to rescue him.

"Make it better, Daddy. Sing."

And Mickey starts to sing.

"Chi-baba, chi-baba, Chihuahua,

Enjilava kooka la goomba,

Chi-baba, chi-baba, Chihuahua,

My bambino go to sleep."

I realize with a start that it's the same song Mickey was humming in the apartment when we were trying to tend to Mark after his fall. It's an old Perry Como tune that Mickey used to sing to Mark as a lullaby when he was just a baby. I don't think I've heard him sing it for over three years.

Mark is enthralled by his father's soft croon. His eyes are riveted on Mickey's face and he is completely unaware that Dr. Rose has begun suturing his head. Mickey, encouraged by Mark's amazing change in composure, continues into the next verse. If memory serves, he changes the words a little.

"All the stars are in the skies ready to say good night,

Can't you see your mother's sleepy, too?

Close your drowsy little eyes, Papa will hold you tight,

While he sings a lullaby to you."

And then it's the nonsense words again. I remember how Mark would laugh at those words once he was old enough to understand that they were funny. Mickey would play up the words with goofy faces, eventually getting Mark giggling uncontrollably. It was a little at cross-purposes with getting him to sleep, but that giggle was intoxicating.

This man right here, right now – this is the man I fell in love with.

This is the man who uses that same soft croon to serenade me with Ritchie Valens' "Donna" while we're cuddled together in bed. This is the man who once snuck out onto the fire escape on Christmas Eve to jingle bells outside Mark's window, his eyes bright as he vicariously imagined Mark's reaction to the possibility of Santa being right outside the apartment.

This is the man who had accompanied me to my mother's funeral when Mark was barely four months old, even though he knew he wouldn't be accepted or welcomed or appreciated by the mourners. It had been a small, bare affair, with only Ron, my brother's little family, and a few distant relations completing my limited relatives. There were friends in attendance of course, and I know many were confused by the open hostility most of my family had for Mickey, and by relation, for me and Mark. But Mickey had taken it in stride. He'd ignored the looks, the thinly veiled disgust, the not-so-quiet disparaging comments. He had come with me for _me_. He had stood next to me with his strong hand massaging my back as I had held my infant son in my arms and quietly sobbed.

I don't see this man that much anymore. I had been afraid he no longer existed.

The doctor has finished stitching Mark's head, and the nurse is applying a bandage. Mickey has ceased singing, instead reverting back to a light hum, and he glances up at me with a self-satisfied grin, obviously proud of himself. Then the grin falters, replaced with a quizzical look of concern.

I realize I am crying.

* * *

Mark is almost down for the count after his injury is stitched and covered. His last coherent comment is directed to Dr. Rose, delivered in a business-like manner.

"Rose is a _girl's_ name."

The doctor chuckles good-naturedly. Even though the childish criticism can easily be dismissed as fatigued ramblings, I feel I have to explain."We have neighbors. Daisy and Rose. They're twins."

Mickey chimes in. "And they have a guinea pig named Tulip."

Dr. Rose's grin catches me off guard; it's wide and completely candid. "Well, when you come back to get Mark's stitches out, look to see if I'm here. And then I can tell him my first name."

The doctor leaves the room. Once he's out of earshot, the nurse turns to us and says in confidence. "It's Shelley. His first name is Shelley."

* * *

After the last two hours of excitement, the checking out of the hospital and the ride back to the apartment is anti-climactic. Mark is in my arms again, having slept in the car the entire way home. My legs feel like lead as I climb the staircase, and I stand wavering at the threshold while Mickey unlocks the door. He enters first, then holds the door open so I can follow.

The apartment is a mess. The left-over chicken and half-drunk beer is still on the table. Mickey's chair is tipped over. I didn't even realize he'd gotten up that quickly. And of course, there's the dried puddle of blood on the living room floor.

I feel like I'm going to be ill. My legs don't want to move. There's a disconcerting rushing sound in my ears. I shake my head, hard, and see little spots before my eyes.

" _Donna?"_ Mickey says my name with intensity, and I get the impression he's been repeatedly calling me.

"Yes, Mickey?" And then I can't help it, I'm laughing hysterically. I start to half-sing, half-scream: "How do you call your Lover Boy? Come here, Lover Boy!"

Yes, we both have songs.

Mickey gently takes Mark from my arms, then holds his sleeping form against his shoulder while he guides me to the sofa and attempts to make me sit. I recover somewhat, swallowing and shaking my head again.

"No. No, I just want to go to bed. I'm okay, Mickey, I'm just. . . done in."

The guiding hand changes direction and assists me to the bedroom. I'm too tired to change out of my clothes, only stepping out of my shoes before I climb into the bed. Once Mickey sees that I'm settled, he bends down to place Mark next to me. I turn to my son, smooth back his curls, and kiss the bandage hiding the seven stitches.

I'm vaguely aware of Mickey slipping into the bed on the other side, of his hand crossing over Mark's body to take mine, and then I am asleep.

* * *

 _ **NOTES FOR THE ABOVE CHAPTER:**_

\- The song that Mickey sings in the hospital is "Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba (My Bambino Go To Sleep)" originally performed by Perry Como (1947). Written by Al Hoffman, Jerry Livingston, and Mack David.

In the verse that Mickey changes, the original lyrics are:

 _All the stars are in the skies ready to say good night,  
Can't you see your doll is sleepy, too?  
Close your drowsy little eyes, mama will hold you tight,  
While she sings a lullaby to you._

\- The song that Donna sings in the apartment is "Love is Strange" by Mickey and Sylvia (1956). Written by Bo Diddley. Discerning readers will recognize it from a cabin scene in the movie _**Dirty Dancing.**_

 **-ck**


	8. Donna's Last Chapter

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Eight**

 **DONNA – TWO WEEKS LATER**

As our trio gradually recovered from our hospital experience, the next few days passed in a kind of distorted normalcy. Mickey came and went, but stayed close like he had promised. Mark and I went downstairs to invite Daisy and Rose to the apartment for Mark's birthday. While I was talking to the girls' mother, we'd suddenly heard twin screams of horror from the other room. I had jumped up in a terrified kind of déjà vu, running toward the squeals, only to find that Mark had peeled back the bandage on his head to give Daisy and Rose an up close and personal view of his stitched wound. When I had hastily said "Sorry" and shuttled Mark back upstairs, he'd surprised me by being shamelessly unapologetic.

"Daddy said girls like scars. I wanted to show Rose."

I knew I would talk to Mickey later about that bit of advice. But I had bypassed the first comment, instead intrigued by the latter. "Didn't you want to show Daisy?"

"No. . . I like Rose. She's more pretty."

" _Prettier_ ," I had corrected, and then had pointed out, "Mark, they're identical twins. That means they look exactly the same."

He had shaken his head stubbornly. "No. Not to me."

Mickey and Mark had been almost inseparable at first. When Mickey was home, Mark had padded around the apartment after his father from sunup to sundown. Morning would find them in the bathroom, Mark sitting on the edge of the tub watching his father shave. They'd have breakfast together, go out together for a ride in the Studebaker, come home to eat lunch together.

Mark had even seemed to try to rectify his previous apathy toward the piano. He had sat next to Mickey on the bench, carefully watching his father's fingers bring melody out of the white and black keys. Mickey had given quiet, patient instruction, and when Mark had finally been able to plink out the eight note "Do, Re, Mi" scale, he'd squealed with delight, jumping up from the bench to give me a hug. Mickey had hung back at the piano, no longer playing, just soberly watching the two of us.

It might have been then when I had started to notice the change. I realized I had almost been expecting it. I think ever since I got that precognition in the hospital about Mickey disappearing, I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mickey suddenly became withdrawn and moody. He rose early and left the house before Mark was awake, and made excuses for why Mark couldn't accompany him on the daily errands. If Mickey was actually at home at night, he rarely came to bed, instead claiming he'd unexpectedly fallen asleep on the sofa.

There was a two-day "show." And when Mickey had returned from that trip Monday night, he'd come home with no gift for Mark.

Mark's birthday had only been a few days away at that point, and I had taken him aside and hinted that Mickey was probably saving his souvenir for a birthday gift. Mark had seemed appeased by my explanation, but the smile he'd given me was faint and brief. He had also noticed the change in his father.

Mickey hadn't been home longer than a day before he'd told me he would be flying out to yet another gig in just a few days. I'd barely had the energy to react. My response had been out of duty, not honesty.

"Mark's birthday is Friday. You said you'd be here."

"I said I'd do my best." Mickey had actually come to bed that night, but it had been like there was a wall between us in the bed.

"Your best for us, or your best for you?"

Mickey hadn't responded, and I had turned away from him so that he couldn't see the tears welling in my eyes.

* * *

Mark's birthday has come and gone. Mickey has just. . . gone.

When Mickey had left on Thursday, there had been no clear indication that he might not return. His good-byes had been routine, his actions normal and lacking guile. It makes me wonder if something unexpected happened to prevent him from coming home, from even calling. But either way, he's still gone . . . and I'm beginning to realize that this time, it's for good.

The Monday after Mark's birthday, we return to the hospital to have his stitches removed. We take the bus. The boy I bring into the hospital is a subdued shell of the one whom I had carried in just two weeks prior. There are no howls of pain, no pleadings for comfort, no chaotic fits. He rests quietly on the bed as the on-call doctor clips and extracts the sutures. When the doctor finishes, he looks appraisingly at Mark's scar.

"Dr. Rose did fine work," he informs me. "You can see – as the scar fades, it'll blend right into his eyebrow. It'll be barely noticeable."

I peer at the thin red line on my son's forehead, still outlined with small dots from the just-removed sutures. "But it'll still be there. The hurt will always be there."

The doctor's frown is puzzled. "Is it still giving him pain? It looks well-healed."

I shake my head, pulling a smile up out of nothingness. "No, I'm sorry, I was talking to myself. He's fine, Dr. Rose really did do a great job. Thank you very much."

I use some of the last cash I have to pay the bill. And as we take the bus back home, I look unseeingly out the window and start running a mental tally of other upcoming bills versus my non-existent income. I need to get a job, which means I'll need a babysitter for Mark. There's practically two months before he starts Kindergarten. I add the cost of a babysitter to my bill tally. I close my eyes as anxiety grips my insides, making me feel nauseous. I can feel sweat breaking out on my upper lip. My hands are trembling.

I suddenly feel two small hands gripping my shaking pair. I open my eyes to see Mark looking up at me, silent tears shining in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just stares up at me. But the grasp on my hands is firm, strong.

If he can be strong, I can be too. We have to be. It's just the two of us now.

* * *

 **Epilogue will follow!**


	9. Epilogue - Milt, 1985

**_Hidden Scars_ by InitialLuv**

 **Epilogue**

 **MILT - 1985**

We're about a half hour out of Palm Springs before I realize McCormick has shanghaied my radio.

Not only that, but he's cheerily singing along to some nonsense about starting a fire without a spark.

McCormick is casually slouched in the pickup's passenger seat, gazing out the window at the raindrops dripping down the glass. He seems to be off in his own contented world, unaware that I'm even in the truck. I almost don't want to disturb him, but we have an agreement. When we're in the Coyote I have to listen to that noise he claims is music, but in my truck, I get to pick the station.

Taking advantage of the kid's distracted state, I stealthily reach forward to turn the dial on the radio.

There's a brief silence while I attempt to find another station. Not expecting the sudden lack of music, McCormick continues singing the next line of the song I just turned off.

"There's a joke here somewhere and it's on me – "

He trails off and glares at me with a combination of indignation and embarrassment. "Hey! I was listening to that!"

"My truck. My radio."

"You can't just shut off Springsteen mid-song. That's sacrilege."

I should have known it was Springsteen. You would think he was the only musician who ever came out of New Jersey, the way the kid idolizes him. Yet Sinatra, who was born in the same town McCormick himself lived in for a time – Sinatra he could do without.

Although I could see that having something more to do with Sonny Daye than it does with Frank Sinatra.

I'm having a hard time finding a radio station that I like. We're still too far from home to pick up my pre-set stations, at least not without a lot of static. As I study the radio in frustration, the truck swerves a little on the damp road.

"Judge!" Overreacting to the brief lurch, the kid makes an exaggerated gesture of grabbing onto the dashboard. "Let me play with the radio," he requests next. "Or better yet, let me drive." McCormick waves a hand out at the steady rain.

"It's just a drizzle. I know how to drive, McCormick! At least we're not getting wet, like we would in your hot rod."

McCormick doesn't respond to the criticism of his car. He's used to my sardonic comments. Actually – although I'd never tell the kid this – I sort of admire the Coyote. It's sharp-looking, surprisingly sturdy, and damn powerful. The few times I've been behind the wheel of that street monster, I've had a hard time controlling it at higher speeds, and felt a little humbled. But the effortless way McCormick handles that car, when we're chasing down the bad guys. . . It's pretty obvious there was a reason he'd been a professional race car driver.

The former race car driver is still jawing at me. "Well, if you're not gonna let me drive, at least keep your eyes on the road and try to not kill us. What do you want to listen to?" McCormick starts scanning radio stations, listening to each for a few seconds before moving to the next one. "I should say, what do you want to force _me_ to listen to? Big band, Tommy Dorsey-type stuff? Or World War II era popular music?"

"Tommy Dorsey _was_ popular during World War II, hotshot."

McCormick shrugs. He is manipulating the radio with a speed and ease that he does most anything related to a vehicle. A burst of a familiar song comes through the speakers and I holler for him to stop.

"Now that's music!" I say happily. It's a woman singing a sort of lullaby – I think it's Peggy Lee. Yeah, that's right. I recall when this song was first popular, in what, the late '40s? _How did I get so old?_ I can also remember how, years later, my wife used to sing this to our young son. I hum along a little to the refrain, which consists of some Italian-sounding nonsense words preceding the lyric "my bambino go to sleep."

I glance at McCormick, expecting a smart-mouthed response about the kind of music I appreciate. He is sitting stiffly upright, the relaxed pose gone, and is staring fixedly in front of him. I turn my attention back to the road, not wanting to give him another reason to yell at me. But it's not long before I look at the kid again, and I see he is now methodically rubbing his left eyebrow.

"What's wrong with your eye?"

He doesn't answer. If anything, the rubbing becomes more agitated.

"Hey! Kiddo!"

McCormick's hand drops to his lap, and when I can see his face more clearly I'm surprised to see a strained expression. The kid looks at me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't turn to face me.

"What?" he growls, his voice rough and annoyed. I'm a little disturbed by the kid's abrupt shift from cheerful singing to surly contention. The mood swing reminds me of the roller coaster of emotions he'd had last month, with what happened to Kate. He'd been over the moon when his old flame got in touch, and after losing her in that sham of a wrestling match, he'd come crashing down into anger and despair, actually scaring me a bit.

I'm out of practice with the kid's ups and downs. When McCormick had first moved in at Gulls' Way, he'd been touchy and defensive, yet often cracking wise to try and hide his wariness of his new living situation. But he's been at the estate over two years now, truly settled in. He's been able to keep his emotions on a much more even keel. So I have no idea what just set him off. I'm a little worried, wondering if something had reminded him of Kate's death. But then there's also the most recent events to consider.

"Your eye – are you okay?" I ask. "I know that guy Orlando knocked you around in the projection booth – "

"He did not 'knock me around!' I got the jump on _him_ – he didn't shoot you, did he?" McCormick bites the words off curtly.

"I kinda got the impression that was because you got bailed out," I say dryly, "by Ferris and his gunsel."

"Well, sure, they might've _shot_ him," McCormick says distastefully, "but that's only because _I_ found him in the first place, and kept him busy until the 'cavalry' got there."

"Kept him busy by letting him use you as a punching bag, huh? In a tux, yet."

"How the hell would you know?" The kid has his arms crossed tightly. At least he's not rubbing his head anymore.

"I do know. I saw the report you gave the cops, sport."

McCormick's shoulders droop. He mutters something about "no privacy" and then starts to rub his left eyebrow again, hard. _Damn it._

I make a decision I hope I won't regret, and leave the I-10 at the next exit. Looking around for a place to park, I finally pull in to a truck stop and turn the pickup off.

McCormick looks around in confusion at the combination gas station/restaurant. "What's this? You hungry?"

I turn in my seat to look directly at him. "I pulled over because I want to talk to you. I can't do it decently if I'm driving. And I know if I wait until we get home, you'll avoid me or take off in the Coyote."

McCormick lays his head back on the seat rest and looks up at the ceiling of the cab. "Judge, this is ridiculous. What is there to talk about? Fine, Orlando laid me out. But I'm okay, everything worked out. Tonto and Lone Ranger got bad guys."

"If everything's okay, what are you all worked up about? You were fine until I made you change the radio –"

"Hardcase, c'mon, I'm not that immature I would throw a fit over something like –"

"Willya stop interrupting me!" I command, loudly. I don't really mean to yell, but I swear, in the past two years I have not been able to finish a thought without the kid talking over my words.

McCormick falls silent, but his glare speaks volumes. I stare back, and we both watch the other to see who will blink first. The kid loses. His left eye twitches slightly, and he turns away as if he's self-conscious of the tic.

"I want to know what's going on with you. Like I said, you were fine ten minutes ago. Now you look like you're ready to throw up, or take off outta here, or both." When McCormick stubbornly refuses to face me, I get a little perturbed. "You gonna say anything?" I bristle.

McCormick throws me a dirty look. "Oh, am I allowed? I wouldn't want to interrupt the righteous and honorable Milton C. Hardcastle." It's a decidedly McCormick smart remark, but it is lacking his typical easy wit. His voice is tired and bland. It's unsettling.

I make another decision, almost as purposeful as pulling over to start this anemic conversation.

"Mark, talk to me," I say. I hope my uncommon use of his first name doesn't backfire.

McCormick closes his eyes briefly, seems to steel himself, and then looks at me with open honesty. "I'm sorry, Judge. I don't know what to tell you. I'm not really sure what's wrong."

"Maybe start with your eye."

The kid's hand rises to his left eyebrow almost involuntarily, and it's like he has to consciously pull it down into his lap again. Now that I'm able to view him directly without having to worry about driving, I look closer at the spot that he's been rubbing, which is now slightly red and inflamed. And I can see a thin white line standing out in the flushed skin, a scar I don't think I've noticed before. Between his eyebrow and the shadow from the long curls, the scar is pretty well hidden.

"Hardcase, can we just go? I'm beat, and I just want to go home." There's an unusual note of fear in the plaintive request.

"I don't understand what's so difficult about this, McCormick," I push, and his only response is a deep sigh.

For some reason I feel this is important. Maybe it's because Mark is so resistant, and that's not what I'm accustomed to anymore. I know he trusts me now, not like when he went off and swiped federal records to try and find his father, keeping me at arm's length until I called him on it. He's able to talk to me about most anything, except for the more graphic details of his time in San Quentin.

Well, that and his mother.

He's mentioned her enough that I know he had a special – and too-brief – relationship with his remaining parent. I know that she worked two jobs until she got sick, to try and do right by her son. But he doesn't provide anecdotes or clear explanations for the brief descriptions he occasionally offers.

McCormick is obsessed with and nervous about this scar that he doesn't want to discuss. I decide it must mean it has something to do with either prison, or his childhood. And based on how old the scar looks, I figure that childhood is a better bet.

"How'd you get that scar?" I know even if he tries to lie to me, I can usually get a modicum of truth from the way he bends the facts.

"Why? Why is it so important?" A clap of thunder shakes the truck, and the kid jumps. He's wound pretty tight. I think if it wasn't raining, he probably would bail on me just to avoid answering my questions.

"It looks like it means something to you, the way you're trying to rub it off your head."

McCormick runs his hands through his hair, but it's more like he's grabbing the curls in distress.

"It's just – I don't – " Another sigh. "I don't really remember."

This wasn't what I had expected. I mull on that for a moment, then come up with a theory.

"It doesn't have to do with your uncle, does it?" I ask quietly.

A humorless grin tugs at McCormick's lips. "No, Judge. There's plenty of stuff I wish I could forget about my uncle, but no, this wasn't him." His face becomes serious again. I can tell he's thinking hard, by the way his jaw tenses and his eyes become unfocused.

"I just remember bits, images. Something to do with a piano? And a toy car – or maybe a plane. I don't know. I must have been pretty young. I think. . . I _think_ Sonny was there." Mark gives his head a quick shake, then looks at me. "What's the earliest memory you have, Judge?"

I'm caught off guard by the request. "Well, I don't know, kiddo. I guess I've just got bits and pieces of when I was really young, too. Images, like you said. Going out to the field to tell my father to come in for supper. Climbing the tree in the front yard, and how ticked my mom got when I tore my pants. The time our old hound dog got in a fight with a coyote, and how my father had to put the dog down – "

"Thanks, Judge, that's enough." McCormick's face pales. And he says I have a soft spot.

"Okay, fine," I agree, "but I think you remember more than you realize, or you wouldn't be working that scar over."

The rainstorm seems to have passed. McCormick looks out the window, then down at his watch. "If we want to get home before dark, we'd better get going, Hardcastle." The tone in his voice is very matter-of-fact. In his opinion, the talk is over.

And I guess it is. If he can't remember, he can't remember. I just wish I knew what had prompted the memory of the scar to begin with, why he had started rubbing it. If he could figure that out, maybe the rest would come.

I start the pickup and find the junction to get back on the I-10. The radio is playing a jazz tune now, and I turn it up. If this station is still coming in once we get back to Los Angeles, I might have to put it in one of the pre-sets.

McCormick leans forward and turns the volume back down. He has an odd look on his face. "Hey, Judge. What was that song before?"

"What song?"

He flaps a hand at me. "You know. That song, when you made me stop scanning the stations. The woman – "

"Oh! That was Peggy Lee. You know who she is." When the kid gives me a sour look, I defend myself. "Hey, she's what, only in her mid-sixties!" I recognize I'm describing myself, and grin a little. "She's still performing, you know. She had some pretty big hits; acted, too. I remember she'd do these radio shows with Perry Como or Bing – "

"Perry Como?" McCormick says with a sudden interest.

"Oh, you don't know who Peggy Lee is, but you know Perry Como?" I tease. "Yeah, that song? He sang it too. I don't know who wrote it, but I think he sang it first." I pause, considering. "I think I like her version better."

I notice a change in the kid's breathing. It's quicker, almost labored. I look at him with alarm. "I'm not gonna have to pull over again, am I?"

"No – don't bother me. Don't talk to me."

"What the hell – "

"Hardcastle, shut up!" McCormick starts humming to himself, then begins murmuring the lyrics of the Perry Como/Peggy Lee song. I can barely make out his voice, but it seems he knows the song verbatim. Better than I remember it. Then he becomes quiet, and I have an urge to check on him again. When I turn slightly to glance his way, I can see he's got his face screwed up like he's trying to decipher a difficult riddle.

"I think I remember," he finally says. "Not everything, but a lot."

"What, you remember the song? I mean, the words?"

"The song? Yeah, a guy singing. That's how I'm used to it. I remember Sonny sang it to me in the hospital."

I'm trying to catch up. "Hospital," I echo.

"I _remember_ ," he repeats in wonder. "I fell. I was climbing and I fell. Cut my head open. They took me to the hospital. I was scared out of my mind. I must have been three or four, if Sonny was still there."

I nod. "That makes sense. Both parts. You being pretty young and being terrified."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, I was more than terrified. I think I hit a nurse. My mom – she couldn't control me. I think I hit her, too." The kid lowers his head in shame. I'm amazed sometimes at how he can be such a smart mouth, so disrespectful, and yet have that inner compass for decency and ruefulness.

"I think she probably understood, kiddo."

He doesn't respond to my comment other than giving a small shrug. I figure that's all I'm gonna get, considering it's his mom we're talking about, and how he _doesn't_ talk about her.

"But then I remember Sonny being there. And he sang to me, to calm me down. He sang that song. That was like 'my' song, you know? Like a lullaby. . . "

He's thrown me for a loop again. The coincidence that both he and my son were sung the same lullaby. . .

McCormick has again clammed up, and we travel for several miles with only the faint sound of the radio between us. It's probably another fifteen minutes before the kid starts to speak.

"Do you know why I wanted to find Sonny?" he asks slowly, as if he has to drag the words out.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I guess. You wanted to meet him, ask him why he left and all that." I shrug.

"But you know, it's weird," McCormick says. "After we met him, in his dressing room, and the way he acted? I don't get it, because I remember – well, I get the feeling – that he was okay as a father. That things were good. My mom – I can see her laughing with him, smiling. I don't remember them fighting, really. Maybe they just didn't do it around me, but. . . " Mark sighs heavily. It's a sigh of twenty-five fatherless years. "He said, in that note he left, that he was afraid of not being the type of father I'd need. But it's not like a five-year-old expects perfection. I think while he was around, he was enough. He was all I needed."

I'm not sure how to answer his observation, so I stay silent. And this time it's only about thirty seconds before the kid starts talking, softly. I have to strain to hear him.

"I guess maybe I should have told him that. I was just so pissed. About everything my mother had to go through after he left. At all the stuff I had to deal with. At how people treated us. I had so much anger built up in me."

McCormick's voice trembles slightly. "I kind of forgot. . . For the short time that he was my dad, I was a happy kid."

I grip the steering while a little tighter than necessary, and peer out the windshield, not trusting myself to look at Mark. I feel honored, in a way, that he's so open with me, but damned if these heart-to-hearts don't take it out of me. I think once we get back home I'm gonna need some serious guerrilla basketball to shake off this talk.

But first –

"Well, who knows – maybe you'll still get a chance to tell him."

McCormick laughs, and it's a welcome sound. "Yeah, sure, Hardcastle. But I'm not gonna hold my breath, okay?" He relaxes back against the seat, obviously calmer now that he's shed his burden.

I chance another quick look away from the road, and see that the kid has a peaceful smile on his face.

It appears his storm has passed, as well.

 _ **END**_

* * *

 _ **NOTES FOR THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER:**_

Episodes referenced: _**Ties My Father Sold Me, Strangle Hold, Conventional Warfare**_.

The song McCormick sings a lyric to is "Dancing in the Dark," (1984) by Bruce Springsteen (of course!).

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**

 **-ck**


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